Alone in Descent
by bluestargem
Summary: Then there's just silence. The pressing silence of nothing. And in that one moment, Finnick feels truly alone./ One-shot: The Hunger Games take everything away from Finnick Odair. Finnick/Annie


_Disclaimer: I don't own Hunger Games, I'm not Suzanne Collins etc._

_Written for the April Challenge at the Starvation Forum which you should all check out because it's fantastic, and filled with fantastic people. Prompt was __**solitude**__._

* * *

**Alone in Descent**

The sun warms his bronze skin as he sits on the soft sand of the beach, gazing out at the calm ocean. The shore's empty save for the red-haired girl beside him: there's no-one distracting him, no fangirls hovering and giggling near him, no fellow trainees wishing him luck for the Reaping, nothing to remind him of what's to come tomorrow.

Annie rests her head on his shoulder, a warm, comforting weight. Her red strands of hair spill over his shoulder in a blaze of crimson and he tangles his fingers in them, revelling in the silkiness and warmth and filling him with an odd sense of peace. With a contented sigh, he wraps his arm around her shoulders and closes his eyes, burying his face into her red hair.

It's just him, Annie and solitude.

Finnick thinks he loves solitude.

-:-

"Finnick Odair!" The words fall on the silent crowd, heavy in their meaning.

He strides down the aisle to the stage proudly, his shoulders thrown back, a confident smile curving his lips. Assured in his youth and naivety, arrogant in the belief of his skill, he stands tall and straight onstage and smirks at the cheering citizens of District 4.

Assured and alone in his belief that he will come back unscathed.

But the rest of District 4, and the Capitol, and one girl in particular, will know, and see, that he doesn't.

-:-

Annie rushes to him from the door and hugs him tightly, unshed tears glimmering in her eyes. _It's alright,_ he says, trying to soothe her, but she's pouring out nonsense, looking like a nervous wreck – he remembers that Annie never deals well with shock or pressure. _Please come back Finnick, be careful, I can't lose you, don't die, I'm so proud of you, it's such an honour, but oh please don't die, don't, please._

He promises but still she clings to him, brown eyes pleading, desperate. He strokes her hair, almost bewildered by her actions, but then the Peacemakers take him away to the train and he's left alone, Annie's scent and tears still on him.

-:-

_Run, stop, throw, run, stop, throw _– the rhythmic pattern of retreat and attack calms his mind as he darts around the trees, his pursuers crashing through the undergrowth after him. _Run, stop, throw, run_…The glimpse of a head falling from his blow almost makes him stop and he feels the bile rising up in his throat, but then a flash of red hair and brown, pleading eyes come to him, as always, and so he continues. _Run, stop, throw, run, stop, throw…_The blood is all he can see now, trickling over still bodies, spraying out of cut limbs, splattering him in shiny crimson _(crimson, red, like _her_ hair) _and he knows that in another minute or so, he will not be able to stand it_. (A part of him wishes for that too, but then redAnniehair, and so he continues)._

Soon enough, there's no-one following him anymore and he falls to his knees, head whirring, breaths hard. The forest is as silent as death, like the ringing silence that hovers over a battlefield of dead bodies. It weighs against his ears, almost deafening in its loudness and he finds, for once, that he cannot stand it. The images of rolling heads and falling limbs and blood_ (red like Annie's hair) _flash across his mind and he clenches his blood-spattered hands together in a silent prayer, squeezing his eyes shut in silent pain.

Surrounded by the dark trees towering over him, he is a lone figure slumped in the shadows.

-:-

He glimpses the last one just as he turns, and before the target has a chance, the trident is whirring through the air.

And the last tribute falls, the trident burying itself deep within the head, cracking it open. As the blood gushes out – _blood, red, like Annie's hair _– he stands alone in the Arena, the tribute's final cry echoing in his ears.

Then there's just silence. The pressing silence of nothing.

The retrieved trident falls from his grasp and his hand falls to his side.

And in that one moment, he feels truly alone.

-:-

_Annie_, he whispers, almost whimpers. _Annie. I want Annie._

The mansion is too big, too empty, too _clean _for him. It's all a new blinding white and the kitchen and lounge room and study all sparkle with an untainted purity that he knows he doesn't belong in. He feels overwhelmed by the deafening silence of this tiled house, which bring to him flashes of _his_ trident, thrown by _his_ hands, travelling through the air to pierce flesh, rip limbs and draw blood.

All he wants is Annie, to soothe and comfort him and take away that empty silence that pervades every airy room he walks in. After all, Annie would understand.

Wouldn't she?

-:-

She visits him the next day and for a moment, all he wants to do is to run up to her and hug her and cling to her like a toddler to its mother, but he doesn't. He doesn't show his pain or his fear as he walks up to her and greets her as smoothly as always – _long time no see, darling._

Her wide eyes search his face with a piercing concern _(and more than that, a painful ignorance)_ that he can hardly stand so he gives her a tour of the house, if only for something to do. There's something different between them, he feels, a sort of hesitation and awkwardness, something, instinct says vaguely, that may be solved if they talked. He doesn't want to though _(the blood, oh the blood)_ and he waits for Annie to say something, to smile at him and say _I understand, you're not alone._

But she doesn't say anything. And so he doesn't either, but that night, and every other night, he asks Annie to stay with him.

-:-

_Blood, running in crimson rivulets across his pillow, staining the white sheets slowly until they reach him, slowly, slowly, and he's drowning in blood, screaming as the blood fills his mouth…_

He wakes up with Annie leaning over him in panic, her red hair falling over him, crimson tendrils spilling over the pillow.

Ignoring her worried inquiries, he stumbles from the room blindly. The couch might be uncomfortable, but her _hair_…he can't stand it.

He sleeps alone in the darkness that night.

-:-

The night before the Reaping he asks one last time _are you sure you're ready?_ She smiles shakily, a mess as always before the Reaping, but she nods - _there's no chance we'll _both _be chosen._

The irony, he thinks afterwards as she leaves his side _(leaves _him_)_ for the stage. He almost laughs.

-:-

He wants desperately to run into the Arena and just hold her, and protect her from the enemies, but he can only watch in silent anguish as she and her partner attempt to fight off two tributes each.

The scream comes then, as one of the tributes cuts off her partner's head. It wrenches at his heart in a way that utterly frightens him – the hoarse, guttural cadences of one long, high, agonised scream that never seems to stop as it wraps around his brain tightly. And her eyes, those beautiful eyes are wild, fixated on the bleeding stump of her partner. She backs away, still screaming, and he can't tear his eyes away from hers as he sees something vital break in them.

As hard as he tries to deny it, he knows he's alone now.

-:-

He reaches out to her. She's at the edge of the cliff, her arm stretched out in a helpless plea as the rocks crumble beneath her, whispering over and over again

_help help help__ and he's yelling her name, arm extended out to pull her back to safety. The wind whips red strands over her dark wide eyes, boring into his, as her own hand hovers waiting for his, and he desperately he lunges for it. And then he stops, their fingertips just brushing each other. Her eyes. There's something wrong with those eyes. Something familiar. And so wrong._

When he wakes up sweating, alone in bed with no Annie warming the left side, he realises what was so familiar about her expression.

It was exactly the same as his. Haunted.

_Alone._

-:-

The new mansion is next to his, freshly furnished but coldly empty with the perfect floorboards, white walls and pristine furniture. He ignores it this time though, because Annie's back, she's _back _and he's almost afraid to meet her now.

He steps into the study, his throat tight. A frail, slender figure sits in the shadow of the high-backed chair in the study, a heartbreaking picture of vulnerability. His first instinct is to run to her, and clutch her to him and whisper _you're not alone _but that space that separates them - that expanse of carpet that is so vast and yet so small - he cannot erase for some reason. So he stands there.

"Annie," he whispers, and his voice breaks, finally cracks under the weight of his grief.

"Annie. It's me. Finnick."

She turns to him. Wide glassy brown eyes, dark red hair spilling across shoulders, pale, fairy-like face. It's all there. Heart beating wildly, he waits for a smile, or a tear, or anything that can erase those metres splitting the room in two.

And then she opens her mouth.

"Who are you?"

He leaves before she sees the tears, the door slamming shut behind him, its ghostly echo lingering through the empty mansion.

-:-

He sits on the beach, alone. It's empty, and only the ferocious waves crashing against the shore in constant turmoil keep him company. Closing his eyes, her lets his head fall in his hands and lets out one lone, pain-filled yell that fades despairingly away as finally, the tears flow freely.

The beach feels chillingly empty.

It's just him now. Him and solitude.

Finnick thinks he hates solitude.

* * *

_**A/N:** If there are any glaring canon errors, do tell because I haven't got the books at my disposal at the moment :) Reviews are better than candy. And that's saying something._


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